


What now, oh force, when life matters not (any longer)

by KyrieLorelei



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Breaking of ideological principles, Corruption, Dark Anakin Skywalker, Dead Padmé Amidala, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, M/M, Major property damage à la Skywalker, Miscommunication, Obi-wan how could you, Past Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Philosophical drabbles, Pre-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Rako Hardeen - Freeform, Revenge, Some Plot, Some angst, Stressed Obi-Wan, crisis on naboo, deception arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-28 13:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10832337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyrieLorelei/pseuds/KyrieLorelei
Summary: Padmé Amidala’s death is sudden, but not entirely unexpected. They are at war and she is a public figure. However, the consequences of one senator’s death may bring about the end of an era.orObi-wan fumbles in the dark when his former padawan disappears without word.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé Amidala’s death is sudden, but not entirely unexpected. They are at war and she is a public figure. However, the consequences of one senator’s death may bring about the end of an era.
> 
> or
> 
> Obi-wan fumbles in the dark when his former padawan disappears without word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the 'Crisis on Naboo' episode when Obi-Wan fakes his death and poses as Rako Hardeen. Instead of Padmé running to their aid after Dooku gets away, an explosion is set off inside the building.

Her funeral was held in Theed, Naboo. It was an outrageous affair, people lined the overfilled streets as they took farewell of their senator and former queen. Only Padmé could create this feeling of intimacy amongst a crowd. Only she could, despite the state of the corrupt republic, bring all her people together, make them gather on the streets as her coffin was brought down from the palace and then drifted along towards the mausoleum.

When he saw her lying on the satin bedding, in that fragile glass-coffin, it felt as if the force was gripping at his throat, restricting his breathing. It had been created just to display her beauty for the people of her home. For them to honour and marvel around her corpse as if she was merely a means of entertainment. Or perhaps she was meant to be a symbol: a paragon of virtue– _hah!_ \- or a martyr defending the Republic, defending democracy. 

As she was brought down the murky lit streets, tears fell down his cheeks. He did not wipe them,

( _unrepentant, unashamed)_

because there was no point in hiding. There had never been one.

Mandalorian wind blossoms decorated the dark hair that was spread out across the bedding. She appeared like a sleeping angel (the irony) as she had so many times before, when he had been by her side. But her skin was terribly off-colour, pasty white, not the fine porcelain that he had dragged his fingertips across just weeks before. This was an artificial creation, an unreal presentation. The thick material of her gown concealed the injuries her body still sustained; the mangled lower-body and the sheer physical damage that had instantly killed her. All realities had been covered up in falsehood, as if to give death an appearance of beauty and tranquility. As if to say: ‘do not fear, our enemies might kill us but we will have the last laugh in death; in beauty’ and Anakin despised it. But it was a typical Nabooian idea.

Death was not serene. It mattered little whether one joined the force or not. Death was messy, bloody, physically revolting. But worse than that, was what it did, what it took. It stole pieces of who you were, until there was nothing left. His wife had been everything. She had been his life. 

As a child love had been his only freedom, his only choice. Love had been the only thing that he had that was his. It was immaterial, but it was always there. His mother’s love and his own. Becoming a Jedi had stunted and restricted. It had taken the reason to breathe from him. When he had married Padmé he had been bursting with life. For once, his life had been surrounded with colour brought on by truly feeling, by living entirely. Love could never be ephemeral, it was a constant, ever-lasting road to travel. It meant everything. More than travelling to all stars in every galaxy, because love was being everywhere at once. And therefore, everything was nothing without Padmé.

She had freed him. From slavery. From the pain of not loving. And here she was, brought down the street with flowers decorating her corpse, mocking who she had been, 

_(beautiful, even in the stillness of death)_

what a luminous and loving person she had been. 

He hadn’t known how to handle being a Jedi. It had attempted to destroy who he was: who all of them were (or could have been). Obi-Wan might believe in the code, but it was ridiculous! All people loved. And with it they grew and shaped, and became. 

Love was everything. To Anakin, love made life worth living. But now, his reason to continue on was gone. His hope for the future had diminished into nothingness. Only death and destruction would come with this war, with Dooku and the Separatists. 

What had he been doing when she–? Playing his role in the game. Being a Jedi. A supposed peace-keeper that were forced into battle and into situations that had nothing to do with them. But the Council insisted on being a part of everything. On always playing nice with the politicians. He knew that they always gave way to the Republic law, even when said law directly went against their beliefs. 

He had been playing his role by protecting the Chancellor. Anakin had been mad, raging over Dooku’s tactics, over the Council’s deceptions and his own master’s cruelty. 

_How could he put me in that position? How could he make a mockery of this–of death, of the absolute divide of our souls? How could he use me like that? Do I mean nothing to him? Of course not, Obi-Wan Kenobi was first and foremost a Jedi._

And then life had stopped. After Dooku managed to run off, an explosion had extinguished the only light in his life. The building had shook with the blast of it. And Anakin, for all his strength and all his accomplishments, had collapsed as he felt her instantly disappear from the consciousness of the world. He had not been able to protect his wife, or his mother for that matter. He hadn’t been able to save the slaves. Why? Because he was fighting a war for the republic. Because of Dooku. Because he was a Jedi.

Dooku had been responsible. As he always was, taking his troopers from the living world and now his own wife. 

When Anakin managed to get to her, she hadn’t been breathing. He had been screaming, the force had crushed columns around him, bringing them down on them all. Obi-Wan had spoken to him in a soothing tone, attempting to placate. 

_But Obi-Wan was dead_

In the end, he had placed a hand on Anakin’s cheek, having the force put him to sleep. When he woke, it was to a nightmare. To a grey speckled reality devoid of her, of love. 

And it was Dooku’s fault.

 


	2. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin returns to Coruscant. Decisions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and the kudos :)

 

Padmé Amidala was dead. It was all over the HoloNet. In honour of the young woman the people of the Republic had all spent a minute in silence a week following her demise. She had been the spokeswoman for and of the people and the symbol for democracy. By now, her ideas were glorified in such a way that it seemed almost as if she had been made an unreachable ideal that could never exist in the real world. In war. Furthermore, the public opinion now vilified Count Dooku to the point were he and the Separatists were made out to be unreasonable monsters. Therefore they were demanding death to the Republic’s enemies, seemingly forgetting that advocating for murder only continued the cycle of hatred.

The Senator’s lavish funeral had been broadcasted on the HoloNet the night before. The events leading up to her death were also a topic of interest, they were analysed and the perpetrator’s intentions was picked apart until they no longer made any sense.

The Jedi were considered the incompetent fools running around attempting to save the Republic in disguises, by deceiving and infiltrating criminal ranks, but not taking action and fighting for liberty and justice. Obi-Wan Kenobi, who, to her knowledge, had been dead two weeks ago, was no longer portrayed as the savvy negotiator of the Republic. He had been the Chancellor’s saviour for a couple of hours and then he became the figurehead of the Jedi, who seemingly could do nothing right in the war. People were furious, the war had now reached an all-time low. They wanted immediate results that the Jedi could not provide. 

Master Vokara Che avoided the HoloNet when in the Halls of Healing, none of her patients, who were bloodied by war, would appreciate the accusations being made by the media. Padawan Tano’s room was kept entirely bare of any holographic aid. The HoloNet News would only hinder the girl’s recovery. She had been involved in the culmination of the entire debacle, after all.

When Tano had been brought in, it was clear that she had been through quite an ordeal. Vokara had thought that Skywalker had carelessly dragged her across the entire Outer Rim without any rest. The boy always became erratic when in great distress, which, with the death of his Master, would have been expected. On the other hand, before the war Skywalker had been disturbingly aware of everyone’s physical need, sentients as well as machines. So perhaps she should not make assumptions. However, the girl had been suspended in a bacta tank for the duration of her trip back to Coruscant, in order to be healed. 

The desolation had been an obvious hole in the force. She had awoken when brought into the Medcenter. Sharp claws had scratched at the surface of the tank in distress. They had been forced to restrain the Padawan, so that she would not end up harming herself by shattering the bacta into pieces. Vokara had put the panicking girl into a healing sleep, which allowed her access to the more serious injuries. 

At present it looked as if she would make a full recovery. But for the time being Tano was confined to bed-rest in the Halls of Healing. Surprisingly, there was little complaint and the girl instead sat on her bed and looked morosely out through the window. Thankfully the Medcenter was situated within the Jedi Service Corps, which was nowhere near the eastern entrance, where people stood protesting.

She was keeping the girl company, going over the state of her injuries, when she felt it. The presence. Anakin Skywalker was back in the Temple, anyone with a sensitivity would be able to tell. His shields, even from a distance, seemed close to shattered. Tano sat stiff and strained in her bed as her Master wandered from the hangar to the south wing. Vokara had forgotten how much like the sun Skywalker was in the force. He burned incessantly as a child, glowing like beacon, but it had been muted since Kenobi had taught him shielding. However, now it seemed as if a walking ball of fire was approaching them, coming to consume them all into a vortex of blistering, sweltering heat. Clearly Skywalker had not been able to handle the situation on Naboo all that well. 

Vokara decided to stay in the Halls. Both the Master and the Padawan were prone to violent outbursts and neither seemed entirely well. Anakin Skywalker walked in with no compunction to his Padawan’s privacy (and if she remembered correctly Kenobi had done the same thing–as if they were entitled to their apprentice), back straight, but with hesitance colouring the force.

“Ahsoka?”

“Master,” The girl greeted. After meeting his inquiring gaze, she looked down at her lap in shame. Her master hovered in the doorway, as if he was unsure how to respond. 

Vokara began to move towards the figure but as he tensed when she approached, she stopped, as to not spook him. He sought her eyes, staring vacantly before suddenly gaining focus–as if it took awhile for him to understand the significance of her presence. 

“Master Che, my Padawan? How is Ahsoka?”

“When Padawan Tano arrived she had several broken bones, fractures and some nasty cuts. The worst injury was her left calf, it sustained quite a bit of damage in the aftermath of the explosion–from what I’ve come to understand it was almost crushed underneath rubble.”

He looked horrified. 

“This time we won’t need any cybernetics. With bed rest and physical therapy she will make a full recovery. But it will take some time. No strenuous activity. The bone itself was not only broken but there was muscle and tissue damage as well.”

Skywalker’s eyes flickered from her form to the girl tensed up on the bed. He smiled, a horribly deformed grimace, but one of genuine relief.

“Snips,” He muttered fondly. Vokara could remember Kenobi’s presence in this same room, in Skywalker’s shoes, just after Genosis. He had lingered by his Padawan’s sickbed, ignoring his own injuries. They grew up so fast. She wondered if she would witness the sight of Tano anxiously waiting by her apprentice’s bedside (if she followed tradition, they would make frequent appearances). That is, if the war allowed it.

“Master, I’m so sorry.” 

The young man was at her side in less than a blink of a human eye. “For what Ashoka?”

“You told me to stay with her, to be her personal guard and I–” He shushed her as she began to sob, pulling her into a loose embrace. 

“We thought the danger was over. It is not your fault.” Her Master petted her montrals awkwardly, as if uncertain if he was allowed to. “It’s Dooku’s. Dooku is to blame.”

Vokara turned to leave, giving the two some privacy in order to heal their wounds together. 

“Skywalker, did Kenobi return with you?” She asked before leaving. Vokara needed to have words with Kenobi about death and deception, he never seemed to understand the significance of such concepts when it concerned himself. Such as the numerous occasions when he had insisted that his troops be healed before himself, even though he was in worse condition. It was a terrible trait that his Padawan seemed to have inherited. 

Skywalker’s reaction was immediate, his jaw clenched along with his fists and his face took on a look of unrepressed fury. The force in the room seemed to have curled into a pit of shadows. She could practically taste its indignation and burning hot pain.

“He is wherever the council wants him to be,” He shrugged with calculated uncaring, while the force around him churned in bitterness. 

Skywalker stood from his place by Tano’s bed, patted her on the head and stalked out the Medcenter–past Vokara– without word. 

The senator’s death must have struck him hard. After Genosis the girl had insisted on seeing that Padawan Skywalker was alright. She had ignored her own, not insignificant, wounds and made an awful lot of noise. They must have been friends for some time now. If one was to take Skywalker’s behaviour into account, this might have hit harder than expected. 

And Kenobi and Skywalker were fighting again. She wanted to sigh in exasperation, but decided to make some tea for her and Tano. The republic’s Team would be back saving lives on the battlefield within a week, thick as thieves.

 

* * *

 

 

Coruscant’s minuscule sun was setting, bleeding his wife’s chambers as golden-red as the second sun of Tatooine. Anakin had somehow ended up in the Senate District, taking the root he always discreetly travelled from the Temple to the upmost floor of Padmé’s building. 

Maybe it was the will of the force for him to come to this place. He entered their bedroom, as he often did during night when coming home late. She was not there. Anakin searched, not knowing what he meant to find, but he was urged by an innermost need. It was agony, seeing his wife’s possessions, her clothes, from evening gowns to senatorial garb. It made him feel uncomfortable, as if he was intruding–not belonging. Anakin had not faced such a concept in years, but it tore at him, at his very soul. Nevertheless, he continued to search, guided by an energy beyond his comprehension. Perhaps it was the force or perhaps it was the dead beckoning.

What he found, made him laugh uproariously. It was ridiculous. She had put it in the drawer of her bedside table. It was unfolded, a book on top of it, not hidden. It laid there like obvious bloody prints pointing in one direction. It had been treasured, kept close to her. Anakin thought that Padmé had destroyed all evidence, but there it was. It seemed as if he no longer could see the difference between dreaming and being awake. Because this was too beautiful–too heartbreaking.

_Dreaming was always better than reality. Because reality had become a nightmare._

“Are you alright Master Ani? You’re leaking.” 

 _Ah, reality._ 3po. He had almost forgotten. He wiped his leakage; his tears. Anakin had given 3po life years ago and Padmé had given him a home. 

“The HoloNet News informed me of the Senator,” C3po began, sounding as lost as he looked. “I believe that my behavioural circuits may be out of tune or it could be the change of ownership, it is– my programming feels wrong.” Sometimes droids seemed much more aware than sentients. Obi-Wan believed that machines were just creations made by a humanoid, following strict routines and orders. How wrong he was, C3po could feel emotions (which seemed beyond Anakin’s master’s capacity). 

Exhaustion was sudden. Perhaps it was because he was sitting down for the first time in days. He sat on their bed fisting the document in his hands. C3po was hovering confusedly by his side, babbling without composure. Anakin hadn’t slept since his Master had forcefully put him into force-rest, which had been days before her funeral. If he could only close his eyes for a second –but then he would remember her. 

_Don't I want to dream? In that world she would still be alive._

But waking would be too hard, if not unbearable. The thought of living in bliss and then waking to a nightmare was terrifying. At least his exhaustion muted the pain. 

_But suffering lead to hate. Hate lead to revenge. Revenge would lead to justice._

He would sleep. Soon.

_Dooku would pay. Soon._

“3po, come here.” The droid–no, the creature, made his way over to Anakin. He had been Anakin’s wedding gift to Padmé and she had given him R2 as a companion. C3po had been the constant representation of Anakin in Padmé’s life, so she wouldn’t forget when he was off to the Outer Rim. And R2 was Padmé’s constant presence keeping him alive.

“I will adjust your circuits and ownership.” He explained as 3po described the sensations he suffered.

“I’ll also give you a holo-contact device–”

“–I’m not an astromech unit!” 3po exclaimed indignantly. 

“Of course you’re not. But this will allow you to contact me through R2D2. Only use it if Obi-wan or Ahsoka are in danger.”

“You will have to define danger to me. I am not a battle droid, nor do I know anything about war. I am a C3po, human-cyborg relations!”

“If their lives are endangered outside the battlefield.”

“And how would you define battlefield?”

“3po!” Anakin was thankful for the smile 3po had given him. Maybe it would be his last.

 

* * *

 

He could feel the darkness settling throughout the galaxy, stretching far and wide, invading people’s hearts and minds without their consent and knowledge. It felt similar to drowning in a symphony of screams. An ending– a requiem–was approaching. It would be his victory. 

Sheev Palpatine stood in his office, gazing out at Coruscant. The night was darker than usual, which could be attributed to everything coming into its place. The Republic was close to bankruptcy, caused by the money spent on war effort. It was stunning. It was a testimony of his efforts. This here, was the ruin of a thousand years of peace. It was all coming to end and it was so captivating, seeing it happen before his eyes.

Who could have thought that one senator’s death, a silly girl really, could cause such an exquisite disturbance in the force.

Certainly, there would have to be replanning and new strategies, but he was flexible when it concerned plans. One should never allow ignorance to cloud judgement, nor complacency, for that matter. 

However, Padmé Amidala’s death had created too many loose ends, just as it had quickened the pace of his plans. Skywalker had ripened and was now pluck-able. The boy would act out. Anakin would fixate on Count Dooku, he would demand his death. This could cause conflict, there would be consequences depending on what course of action he would take. Palpatine would have to make a stance. Politically, that is. A stance that would not damage his reputation even if Skywalker went with a lunatic decision and started slaughtering the people of the Republic.

There was already a great agitation between Anakin and the Jedi Council. He needed to further this. He needed the Jedi to dismiss Anakin and his need for revenge and thus his love for Padmé Amidala.

The end was near. He could feel it. Things were going faster than expected. The Separatists would now need to focus on specific systems. Moreover, his plans for the InterGalactic Banking Clans would have to commence shortly. 

The opinion on the Jedi had reached a new low and this time he had not needed to spread the idea. Theories regarding their warmongering had been the topic of interest the week leading up to Amidala’s funeral. It was said that it was the Jedi that were draining the Republic’s economy, it was they who ordered that creation of the clones. The clones who were slaves, only children themselves. Not to mention the all around fear of the Jedi, the kidnappers, taking children and raising them without emotions. Even the Dooku-theories were flourishing. The concept that his lack emotional capacity had caused him to become the cruel and cold leader of the Separatists.

How funny it was, one senator’s words could change the opinion of the entire Republic. But so could her death. Her death, ironically, would be the catalyst to his Empire. The culmination and end of her beloved democracy.

 


End file.
